


reaffirmations and conversations

by MistakeMakingInProgress



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Edward Elric Keeps Automail, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, M/M, No Dialogue, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Second Person, Possessive Behavior, Rimming, Rough Sex, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:35:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23556169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistakeMakingInProgress/pseuds/MistakeMakingInProgress
Summary: between two beings of avarice, its to be expected that they didn't like people eyeing up their private property.
Relationships: Edward Elric/Greed, Edward Elric/Ling Yao
Comments: 3
Kudos: 73





	reaffirmations and conversations

**Author's Note:**

> this was both an experiment and an excuse for more smut, and i dont apologize in the slightest. i do however need to fukin organize these fics since most of these are all from the same idea, but that takes brainpower i dont have at 9 am! so it can wait while i throw more porn into the void

You might've been flashy, but you had your limits, and one of those was the stuffy Xing functions. It's one of those over-the-top fancy parties, the kind you only go to for the food and because you know one or two people attending. The temptation to spend the night hanging off Ling or Greed was going to be awful. But you're more than aware of how that would look, and the stubborn flicker of pride that always seems to ruin these things demands _some_ independence. You could live with being in the same room, you weren't a damn needy dog. Still, the apprehension lingered like a sour taste. This was a choice out of boredom, not reputation, so you barely bother to dress up for the occasion. Nothing about your outfit screams status or wealth; really, it just highlights everything Amestrian about you. But you look acceptable, so it'll do.

The party is about as eventful as expected: it isn't. It's not some monumental occasion with importance, it's just a gathering for gathering's sake. If your boys hadn't come, you know for a fact you wouldn't have either. Maybe. Could have at least snuck in to sample the food, maybe smuggle some back. Speaking of food, the extensive buffet has most of your attention, and suddenly the party feels a little less shit with spices burning the fuck out of your mouth. Between scarfing down the free bounty, you deal with the typical polite conversations from someone you absolutely don't know. Maybe you did meet some of them in the past, but you never committed these random faces to memory. Why would you, you may of frequented the palace, but it wasn't your job to get buddy-buddy with the noble families around you. Then of course, you're approached by yet another new face. She's a little shorter than you, covered in a rich green robe and pink blossoms. You'd peg her to be a daughter of _someone_ waltzing around, the youth evident in her rounded face. You're braced for another "oh, you're the famous alchemist who saved the world, aren't you?" conversation, but either she was skipping the pleasantries, or she honestly didn't know. Talking to her has all that specific energy of someone chatting up a loner at a bar, and if it wasn't coming from someone seemingly so meek, you might've just blown her off. You're cautious but a little curious, your fatal flaw. After a few shared laughs, it feels like your paranoid notions were unfounded. Up until the point she's close enough, you can smell the perfume above the lingering spice in your mouth. It takes an amazing amount of self discipline not to shrink back when she reaches up to smooth the front of your vest with confident fingertips. It's done casually, something small while she continued to talk as if she hadn't taken her time feeling the muscles just below two layers of fabric. A little too much of an invasion of personal space, but it's not worth making a scene. Not for your sake of course, you've ripped into people for lesser offences. But your status as hero to all isn't a valid excuse, and you'd rather suffer a little than ruin such delicate reputations attached to your presence. Discomfort is a familiar companion in your life.

Some god must like you enough to have pity- or perhaps it's the opposite- but the abrupt pressure on an automail wrist startles you into flinching. The adrenaline and instinct to break a jaw very quickly fade when you catch sight of the ouroborus tattoo. Faintly surprising that the tight grip isn't shielded, but you're too caught up in the wave of relief to stay surprised for long. You're not sure if she recognizes him, or if she even knows who he is at all, but of course her meekness slides right back into place once she lays her leaf green eyes on him. Cheeky. Seemed like everyone here dabbled in the art of deception. Still, it's the wisest decision she's made so far; even you could feel the weight of his tight grin, and it wasn't even directed at you. Your greeting goes ignored save for the light squeeze your manufactured nerves pick up. All he says to your partner in conversation is something short, clipped in what you know is a shred of restraint. And then he's pulling you out of the party, the room, several halls away while the music becomes muffled by distance. You only try to weasel away once, but there's something familiar in how he looks at you with a silent icy expression. The same look he gave you 3-4 years ago, mere hours before the confession that would lead to this entire setup. In fact it mirrored a lot of that chance moment; someone chatting you up, you swallowing your pride and dealing with it. Being found not long after it happened. And eventually being cornered. It's familiar in all the right ways to make your steps stutter.

You never do expect when he slams you to the wall, framed between two decorative pillars that span the entire corridor. Secluded, with dimmer lighting. There's no hesitation in his interrogating, crowding you and trapping you in words and body. You can tell he's biting back on harsher tones, but you still bristle in your usual sharp tongued defense. All the rage and defiance in the world can't distract you from the sweet tinge to an angry breath. Wine or maybe a pastry, you think. The bait to a mouse trap. Something so small shouldn't distract you so much. But it does, enough you don't think to bite your tongue on a poorly worded quip. You know you've dug your own grave the moment the words left your mouth, but it's the sharpening of his eyes and a subtle twitch that drive your demise home. His hands are at your chest in an instant, and your breath hitches with the savage force used to rip your vest open. The buttons bouncing on the tiled floor somewhere behind him. Didn't need the shield for that either, it seemed. His low, _demanding_ tone is being breathed into your neck, the edges of his teeth ghosting over vulnerable flesh. You completely forgot whatever remark you had prepared for this. Rather than floundering for a new response, you answer him simply, cursing yourself for the soft quality to your voice. Even a small amount of give doesn't sate him like it would any other time, and you yelp when he lifts you up. Takes all of two seconds for him to tear your pants and shoes off, discarding them haphazardly. He takes his time in dragging your boxers slowly down your legs, eyes daring you to look away first. You never were one to back down easily, even if your throat felt a little tighter. He leaves them to hang off the metal leg, maneuvering your thighs to rest on his shoulders. You almost want to bite out some scathing comment- anything to save some face- but there's nothing that could possibly help you regain your position as resident Snarling Asshole when he's eyeing you with a predatory gleam. There's no way you could miss the way he slowly draws his tongue across sharp teeth. The motion was slow, like he was intentionally making a show of it, so you didn't anticipate him _very_ quickly burying his face between your legs. Of course you only think now to stammer protests about the publicity of a hallway, or how the party still going on and surely would hear, but the words die in your throat when he slides his tongue in. Your legs are already shaking, and you spare a thought to be impressed how your boxers are still hanging off your foot, before it too is lost to the steady pressure of wet heat. Your hands had dropped to his hair at some point, fistfuls of spikes between your fingers. It's not enough of an anchor to keep the noises stuck in your chest, every uttered gasp only encouraging him. There's no possible way to escape it, as much as your writhing waist seemed to be trying its damnedest. You're crushed to the wall, held there by certain hands keeping your thighs wide open and your body pinned. Tasting you, savoring each twitch. _Devouring._ It's a relentless feeding, and you can only grip his hair tighter and let your head fall back against cool marble.

You don't mean to choke up when that devilish tongue leaves you, or to fall instantly into pleading with him as he slides you down to eye level. Begging him for something, anything, swearing from the bottom of your soul that you'd behave. You'd be ashamed at how easily you were rolling over and taking it, if you weren't painfully hard. The ice had melted from his eyes a while ago, replaced with the more typically searing desire. Possessive in every possible way. You're still babbling even as he moves to shove his own pants down enough, and only stop because you don't have enough air to keep begging when he slowly, _painfully_ slowly presses himself in. He doesn't stop until he's buried himself as deep as possible, and you can only part your legs wider and accommodate him. It burns more than it usually would, but you can feel yourself quivering and tensing, maybe even _because_ it burned. Damned masochistic streak. You're still hugging the edge of release, and you try to protest the sharp fingertips gliding over your skin, but of course he's come too far to stop. Knowing that he _won't_ stop until he's finished marking you inside and out makes you twitch around him again.

He's deceptively slow about it, more leisure in his languid rotation of hips than seemed normal for an occasion like this. Teasing bastard. He was pushing you to the edge slowly, making a silent point of it. A reprimand and a reward in one gut scrambling package. He dragged his teeth and tongue over every inch of neck he could reach, even biting the shirt collar out of the way to seek out more untouched skin. You felt like an overheating wire, jerking your hips back onto him, chasing after the dangled carrot. And yet he wouldn't budge, one hand wrapped around your thigh to keep your bucking from interrupting him. It's not entirely your fault that one of his titles slips out of your mouth in a moment of desperation, almost lost between whimpers, but you know from the feeling of a rising grin against your pulse that he's already mentally marking it under another victory. But you'd let him categorize it as anything he wanted if it meant he abandoned his teasing. You barely register him shifting your weight, and it wasn't worth focusing on that when he was _finally_ fucking you in earnest, drawing louder cries despite the lip biting. There's stars on every precise slam, squeezing the air from your lungs. It can't be more than a few seconds of much rougher thrusts before your hips can't frantically push back, your body rigid as you're already being tipped past your limit. The futility of clawing at his back always seems to escape you when your mind whites out, but there's no time to come down from it. He hasn't even slowed down; rather, he starts to go even _harder,_ pushing you up the wall with each slam. You don't spare a thought for the volume of your voice, freely chanting his name as he drags your hips back onto his cock. You nearly sob reverently, your second orgasm coming on just as fast as he can pound into you, but it's the possessive snarl of your name and the final snap of his hips as he empties all his tension into you that makes you fall head first into a burning sea of ecstasy. One hand is braced near your side, supporting you both as he ruts through the shared high, and you swear you can feel the warmth dripping out when he pulls back too far. His hips still with the last wisps of release, left with only the pressure of being full and the hazy afterglow. You're still shuddering, tingling with overused nerves, and you find yourself still softly calling for him. He catches your mouth in a tender kiss, and you can still taste a little bit of that sweetness from earlier when he does. 

The sweat soaked shirt rides up on the wall as he slides down to the floor, leaving you firmly seated in his lap. He's kissing and touching you tenderly now, murmuring questions to you between your lips. Asking if you're alright, that nothing hurts more than it should. You can only think so far as to curve your arms tighter around his neck, nuzzling into his shoulder with a soft hum of affirmation. Forming any words beyond 'master' or 'fuck' sounded like a pain in the ass. You squeak indignantly—desperately, rather—when he pulls back, pleasantly perfect hands leaving your ribs. And then he's tugging his vest off, wrapping you up in it as he eases himself from your body. It stings when he does, and you're dead certain it'll hurt far worse later, but that just meant the memory would linger. That his mark would stay. You're vaguely attentive enough to know he's fixing his own pants and gathering up your clothes. One arm is still firmly curled around you, keeping you pressed to his chest. A small pang of uselessness zips through you, but it only lasts a moment. You don't think you could move to help if you tried. So instead you pull his vest tighter around you, nuzzling into the fur collar and breathing in his scent. Drinking in the familiar smell and letting the peace it brings wash over you. There's a chaste kiss on your cheek before you're lifted up, held tight to his chest with your clothes draped in your lap. It covers the important bits, like how the bottom of your shirt definitely has cum on it, or that your thighs are drenched in _his_ cum, so it hardly seems worth it to complain. You already know he's carrying you to his chosen room, practically drifting off with the rhythm of sure steps. Admittedly, it's a little funny to watch him struggle to open the door, stubbornly refusing to put you down. Granted, you probably couldn't stand up on your own, so maybe that was actually a good plan. You sneak a hand out from the clothing pile to open the door for him- it's the least you could do- receiving another kiss in thanks. You've enough energy to mumble about how ridiculous he is, though it's probably obvious just how much you're eating up his affection. You had no will to pretend otherwise.

You're set down on the bed with enough caution, you'd think he was moving glass. The last of your clothing is peeled off, though he lets you keep his vest hugged to your chest. Wasn't as if it hadn't gotten dirty before. The sleeve of your shirt is repurposed to crudely wipe away some of the mess, and you're too busy squirming at the overbearing sensation to yell about how that shirt wasn't a cum rag. It already was a mess, a little extra spunk wasn't going to do much. It hardly takes any incentive for you to shimmy under the covers, your expectant look met with another fond kiss. You're more than happy to snuggle up to him after he strips himself of his stupid pants, lifting the blankets to join you in the aftercare cocoon. There weren't many things more wonderful than when he wrapped his arms around you tightly, pulling the covers up until only your eyes and now thoroughly messy hair peeked out. Hidden in his embrace, and welcome to his warmth. You tucked your head just under his chin, splaying metal fingers out over his chest. Feeling the rise and fall of his breathing in your very core. No amount of quiet love confessions could keep you awake as long as you wanted, but that was alright. The warm hands on your back burned with all the love you needed to know, and you hoped the mismatched hot and cold of your hands did the same. But if not, there was always the morning, and the day after that. You'd burn your love into him as much as the wildfire of his had ravaged you, in the best of ways.

**Author's Note:**

> yes yes "but wheres ling??" next chapter, when i have enough braincells to do a gremlin shit justice, but author needs more zs before he tackles that. i have spent far too long on just this part, second person hard. i also might stay up forever and keep touching this so if i dont post it now, i simply will Not so here we are! uwu


End file.
